Chapter Seven

Dearest Abe,

It's nearly been a month since you've gone. Knowing you, you're probably thinking of me at this moment, keeping track of how much time I have until I run out of supplies. You're probably worrying about me, about my psyche, how I will deal with being alone, how I will deal with having to kill again.

If only you'd known what was about to be thrown my way.

Would you have still left me to my own devices?

Would you still have picked those poor souls over my own?

It is hard to say.

And by the time you read this letter, I'm not sure if you'll be regretting your choice or not.

A few days ago, local fishermen were attacked by a Syren. I heard their cries and swam out across the strait to help. I saw the remains of two, or at least what was left of them—it was gruesome, no doubt ripped apart by this creature. The fact that we now had a dangerous Syren swimming in our waters, no longer out by the icebergs, was a problem for this village, but it also provided a solution for me.

The next evening, I went into the waters and captured the Syren.

Now, she is in the back of the church, tied to the cross. I crucified her in the hopes that it will remind me of what I have fought for, what you have helped me become. I know you don't believe in God, Doctor. I know you use God to inspire discipline and constraint and devotion in your monsters. You took God and used him to make us human, and it worked.

Right now, I need that discipline more than ever.

The things I want to do to this creature are unspeakable.

I thought the lust inside me had been buried for centuries. In the monastery, it didn't even exist. Here, at the bottom of the world, I didn't dare let it out to play. Not with you, not with anyone. And yet, now that this creature is in my presence, I fear it. I fear it as much as I fear the desire to devour her whole, drink all her blood until she's a shriveled corpse.

I sound like a heathen, a madman. I fear I am turning into both those things, and I am powerless to stop the transformation. The longer this Syren is in my hands, the more I think she won't survive.

That I might not survive.

I know what you would say—that it's best to kill her and be done with it. Don't prolong her torture any longer, that such sins are beneath me. You would say I shouldn't prolong the risk of me snapping and becoming that dreadful thing you once discovered chained to a tree in the motherland. Do whatever you can to not regress.

But think of the people I'll save by keeping her. Instead of killing several times a week, I can feed from her indefinitely. I will save humans, and isn't that all I've wanted to do? Isn't that the heart of my absolution? To make up for all those lives I took, not out of survival, but because killing felt good to the murderer inside me?

Aragon, you would say, you must not feel guilty for what you are made to do. To drink the blood of humans is divine. To torture a sea creature, no matter how much they might deserve it, is beneath us. We must always pick the route that leads to salvation, no matter what logic tells us.

I don't know what I'm going to do. You are clearly on my mind and in my ear, even though you are probably in the middle of the Atlantic by now, getting further and further away from me. I know what you want me to do, but…

Perhaps I am just too curious to do it.

I haven't felt this alive in centuries, Abe.

The excitement, the lust, the dark desires… She is becoming my obsession, my reason for being, and I've only just begun.

Your oldest friend,

The Priest

Ilay my fountain pen down and peer at the crinkled paper, waiting for the ink to dry. Outside, an owl hoots before its cry is swallowed by the wind. In a few hours, the sun will be up, and I will have to hold a funeral for the fishermen, followed by mass. I should be brushing up the eulogy—though I didn't know the men well, the village will expect me to act like I did, to say all the right things, to help them make sense of such a tragedy. There has been enough tragedy in these parts, thanks to famine and disease, but this was of another nature.

To my dismay, my thoughts keep drifting to the Syren.

My little fish who won't give me her name.

Perhaps she doesn't have one, or at least not one that translates.

But I feel she does. She just doesn't want me to know, for she thinks it will give me more power.

She's right.

If she wants me to do magic for her, I'll have to know her name to make it work. Something of that magnitude requires it.

Not that I'm considering it.

To do a spell of that enormity requires serious consideration. There are physical sacrifices to be made. The timing has to be right. I can heal those who are hurt, but my talents have been on the humbler side. The idea that I could manipulate her tail to become legs, that I could give her human anatomy, is beyond my scope.

And even if I was able to perform it successfully, I would make my whole situation more difficult. A Syren is easily contained. A woman is not. I would have to have additional security measures in place for her. She would still need to be constrained, though perhaps not to a cross. I would have to make the back room into a jail of sorts. She wouldn't be able to yell or call attention to herself. She wouldn't dare let herself be known as she is right now, but if she can pass for an ordinary woman, there's no doubt she'll seek safety and sanctuary in the arms of others.

You should be her sanctuary, I chide myself, folding up the paper.

I know I should be, but I can't be. I'm already picturing her as a woman, and I'm having a hard time coming to terms with what I'll have to do to keep her here.

It's easier to be a monster when you're dealing with one.

The minute she becomes human, it will only show how much humanity I lack.

But all these thoughts don't help when she is waiting.

I melt wax over the candle flame and pour a neat circle over the letter, sealing it with a press from the clergy ring. Then, I place it on the shelf beside my door to remind me to bring it into town later to send off on the next ship. There's always a chance someone can read it, but the fear of God is strong here. To break the seal is to break a holy man's trust.

Besides, who would believe them?

This time, I take a bucket I have in the cottage, since I'll need the church one for mass, and step out into the frigid wind. It's still dark out, though there's a rim of gray on the east horizon. This will be the fifth time I've made the journey to the well to keep the Syren damp, and I'm already growing tired of it. Perhaps she was lying when she said she needed to keep wet—maybe she's making me do this as some sort of petty revenge.

It's April. It won't be long until the snow falls here in the Southern Hemisphere, and those winds from the unknown seas to the south will make the villages inhospitable. The water in the well will freeze, and people often take refuge in the church when their houses fall due to inclement weather. Taking care of a Syren will be harder than it already is.

Do what the doctor would have you do, I think to myself. Drain her of her blood, store it, then kill her. Or throw her back in the sea for the sharks if you can't stomach that.

After I get the water, I head into the church and the back room.

Each time I've unlocked the door and stepped in, the Syren has been waiting for me with hate in her violet eyes. This time, however, she's slumped over, her hair in her face, still damp from the last time I poured water on her.

I clear my throat, noisily locking the door behind me to see if I can wake her. When she still doesn't stir, I feel a flutter of panic in my chest.

I stride over to her and consider throwing the bucket of water on her like I did last time, but somehow, that feels harsh.

I set the bucket down at the base of her tail, noting how much drier it seems. The pinkish-orange color has faded away to a white gray, and each scale is raised and peeling back, drying out before my eyes.

I know I'm taking a chance getting close to her—my hand has only started to repair itself from where she bit off a chunk the other day—but I put my fingers under her chin and lift it up.

"Little fish," I whisper to her.

Her mouth parts slightly, and she lets out a ragged gasp, her lips as dry as her tail. Black eyelashes flutter for a moment, but her eyes don't open.

"You need some water," I tell her, wishing the feeling of concern I have for her well-being wasn't so prominent.

I pick up the bucket and tilt her head back again, pouring some of it into her mouth. It spills over her lips, but she manages to swallow some of it down.

"What do you need?" I ask her. "Food? Was the side of my hand not enough to sustain you?"

She doesn't answer, not even with a pithy remark, and her head slumps against my fingers.

I let her go, trying to think. I go to my desk and grab a spare pair of white bands I wear tied under my collar during mass then bring it back to the bucket. I kneel and soak the cloth in the water before I start pressing it over the fins of her tail. The texture is strange under the cloth, smooth yet rigid, and I carefully make sure each inch is well moistened before I move on to the rest of her tail.

It's a curious feeling, touching a creature like her with such patience and care. It's the first time I've been able to really observe her from up close. Though she may be a monster, she still seems like she belongs in this world, even if it's not her own. Her scales remind me of the trout I would catch in the mountain lakes, while her upper body…

I close my eyes for a moment, pausing with the wet cloth pressed against the side of her tail. I want her to remind me of my wife, of the woman I loved before I lost her. But time has erased so much of that life from me. I remember her, I remember my children, can recall the memories and feelings, but I can't see them anymore. They are nebulous, blank faces. I know what it was like to caress my wife's body, to spill my seed inside her, to lose myself to the throes of passion, but I can't say what color her eyes or hair were or what her skin tasted like.

I don't even remember her name.

But I do remember how she died.

"What are you doing?"

I glance up to see a pair of purple eyes shining down at me.

I clear my throat and take a step back. Why do I feel as if I've been caught doing something I need to feel shame for?

"I was sponging your tail," I tell her. "I thought it might help it soak in better than just tossing a bucket of water on you."

She nods, licking her lips. "Were you going to do the rest of my body?"

My eyes immediately go to her breasts, her nipples contracting into hard, pink pebbles. Though she's always been topless, I go out of my way not to dwell on her nudity, lest I lose my mind.

But now, she's making me look. She even juts out her chest a little, as if she wants my attention, wants my hands on her with my holy cloth, making her wet. For a moment, I imagine throwing out all constraints, all inhibitions, and having my way with her. I imagine leaving little bites along the full swell of her belly, along her fleshy sides, leaving just the tiniest trails of blood, which I would delicately lap up with my tongue like a feline. I would make her moan that same deep, breathless sound that she expelled when I was drinking her blood.

Then, I would search for her most intimate spot, perhaps a slit hidden along the front length of her tail, pull out my already rigid cock, and thrust inside her until I heard her screams.

"Yes," I hear her whisper, so faint that I might have imagined it.

But it's enough to pull me back in control.

I swallow thickly and avert my eyes from her chest. "I would say my job here is done."

Before I can change my mind, I take the bucket and throw the rest of the water in her face. She cries out, sputtering as the water cascades over her head, and then I pour what's left in the bucket over my own.

I need to slap some sense into myself just as much as she needs it.

"I must conduct a funeral and a sermon," I tell her, wiping the water off my brow. "You'll have to survive while I'm gone. I can get you something to eat if you tell me what that is."

She glares at me, rivulets running down her face. "A human heart. Yours, preferably."

I can't help but give her a tepid smile. "You'll never have my heart, little fish."

Besides, I'm not even human.

The funeral service and the sermon that followed were just what I needed to get myself back on track. Being so wrapped up with the Syren, I'd forgotten what it was like to really perform my role. It's not just about my relationship—or lack thereof—with God; it's about my relationship with the villagers. They look to me for guidance, especially in times of stress and fear. Death may be no stranger to these parts, but gruesome accidents, like the ones that had befallen their neighbors, are few and far between.

Yes, there is the occasional skirmish with the native population who live on the outskirts of the settlements, and every now and then, there is a situation of abuse and brutality between a husband and his wife, or two drunks at the ale house, but for the most part, violence isn't common here, unless it came on the deck of a pirate ship.

These people needed to hear God's words of wisdom, to feel hope and make sense of the world around them. I needed to remember why I am stuck in this outpost. It's not just because I deserve isolation—it's because I have something to offer.

But even though I felt recharged by the time the worshippers left the church, I can't say my mind was completely focused on my flock, for I kept thinking about the wolf I had behind closed doors. While I gave my sermon about living with sin and finding the courage to rise above it with grace, I was wallowing in the muck and the mire by holding that creature captive for my own gains. Though I kept telling myself I needed to do this for my own sake, it didn't stop the urges and shameful thoughts from sinking in.

It didn't stop the truth.

I acted like a man of God when, in truth, I was a man of the Devil.

I was no man at all.

What I really wanted from the Syren wasn't her blood, and it wasn't my survival.

It was her.

Just her.

She's been my captive for less than a week, I don't even know her name, and I can't imagine ever letting her go.

If you're going to have an obsession, make sure it's the right one. Abe's words ring in my head. He meant for the monastery and religion to become my obsession because if I was fixated on that, then I wouldn't have time to think about the beast I was trying to escape. And it worked.

But the last thing he'd want is for my obsession to turn to something physical.

At that thought, my skin prickles anxiously. I quickly walk down the aisle and shut the doors to the cold wind, hoping everyone is done with God for the day. I know I am.

My gaze sweeps over the church, making sure everything is in its orderly place, and then I unlock the back room and step inside.

She's where I left her, strapped to the cross. Her eyes are closed, and she looks listless, her tail even paler than earlier.

Pitiful, I can't help but think. The longer I keep her here, the less of a vibrant, ferocious predator she is.

I know I'll have to refill the bucket from the well and wet her down again, but first, I need to take off my cassock robes so I don't get them wet. Things take forever to dry out here.

"Father Aragon," the Syren says in a low voice as I place my robes on the chair. The sound of my name snaps my gaze to hers.

I frown, about to ask how she knew my name when she adds, "I have especially good hearing."

Figures that her senses are better than most. If she's like me in that way, she also has a superior sense of taste, sight, and smell.

"Do you actually believe what you're telling those people?" she asks. Her voice is rough, and she licks her parched lips.

"I tell them what they want to hear," I say, walking toward her while adjusting the collar of the black shirt I wear under the robes. "What they need to hear. It's not easy to be a settler in these parts. All these people and those who came before them moved from a land much more hospitable than this one. They need God to give them faith, to remind them that everything they're doing is for a reason."

"Is that so? What is the reason?"

I tilt my head as I look at her. Despite how sallow she looks, those eyes of her spark with antagonism. "For their country."

"And what country is that? Is that a kingdom?"

"Yes, the kingdom of Spain."

"Is that where you are from?"

I pause. "Yes. And what kingdom are you from?"

I don't expect her to answer me, so it's surprising when she says, "Limonos, but it doesn't exist anymore."

Interesting. "What happened to it?"

She just stares at me for a moment and then raises her chin. "You deflected my question."

"Just as you're deflecting mine?"

"I asked you first. Do you believe in what you were telling those people? Do you believe in this God you say speaks through you? Does he speak through you? Do you hear him?"

Her questions give me much to ponder. I walk toward her, stopping a foot away. "I recite the words I have learned," I admit. "I know what the Bible says, and I know what people expect to hear. God doesn't speak through me. I don't hear him. I don't even think he exists half the time."

"You question his existence, and yet you are a priest? Even I know that is preposterous."

I squint at her in wonder. "How did you learn so much?"

"Why are you pretending to be God's messenger?" she asks instead.

"Because I must," I tell her.

"Why? Is it something you are forced to do in this world?"

"For some, yes," I say carefully.

"For you?"

I sigh and run my hand through my hair. "For me as well. I don't have to do this; I need to do this. It's the structure of religion and God that keeps me on the path I need to be on. It keeps me from…"

Her eyes flash curiously. "From what?"

"I've told you before: it keeps me from becoming a monster, something worse than how I stand before you now. I know you think I'm cruel and immoral, but you really have no idea the lengths I have gone to make sure I hurt as few people in this world as possible." I wait a beat. "I realize that's something you may never understand."

She frowns. "If you're trying to guilt me, it won't work. I don't feel guilt. I kill men not only because they taste good but because they deserve it. I have seen what men to do creatures, to women, to Syrens. One less man is doing this world a favor."

"Then you should realize I am worse than the worst men you've ever heard about or come across. I was turned into a beast by the Devil himself. If there's anything you should be ridding the world of, it's me."

She grins at me with sharp teeth. "Then step a little closer."

I stare at her for a moment, trying to find some sort of plan in all this chaos.

Then, I reach down for her tail, and I pluck out one of the dried scales.

She winces as I slip the scale into my pocket.

"What was that for?" she says, grinding her jaw.

"For the spell," I tell her, and her eyes widen. "For my magic. You said you wanted legs, did you not?"

She nods warily.

"It might take some time—a night or two, a ritual, a new moon. I might need more from you. More scales, your hair, perhaps your blood. And I'll need to figure out what you'll give me in return. This is a bargain, not something done for your benefit."

"You're getting my blood in return," she says.

"I would be getting that from you no matter what I did," I inform her. "You benefit here more than I do. I will have to think of something that will make this worth my while, or perhaps you can think of something yourself. What could you offer me that I would accept?"

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't take anything less than her soul.

"Oh," I add, "I will also need to know your name."